The  Man  with  the  Hoe 


The  Man  with  the  Hoe 
and  Other  Poems 


By 

Edwin   Markham 


New  York 

McClure,  Phillips  &  Co. 
1902 


COPYRIGHT,  1899,  BY 
EDWIN   MARKHAM 

COPYRIGHT,  1899,  BV 
SAN   FRANCISCO    EXAMINER 


Stack 
Annex 

95 


TO 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN 

FIRST   TO    HAIL   AND    CAUTION    ME 


Prefatory    Note 

Many  of  these  poems  have  appeared  in 
Scribners,  The  Century,  The  Atlantic,  and 
the  San  Francisco  Examiner,  and  my  thanks 
are  due  them  for  permission  to  republish. 

EDWIN  MARKHAM. 
OAKLAND,  CALIFORNIA. 


The  Man  with  the  Hoe 


The   Contents 

The  Man  with  the  Hoe    15 

A  Look  into  the  Gulf  19 

Brotherhood  21 

Song  of  the  Followers  of  Pan  22 

Little  Brothers  of  the  Ground  23 

Wail  of  the  Wandering  Dead  25 

A  Prayer  28 

The  Poet  30 

The  Whirlwind  Road  32 

The  Desire  of  Nations  33 

The  Elf  Child  39 

The  Goblin   Laugh  40 

Poetry  41 

A  Meeting  42 

Infinite  Depths  43 


The    Contents 

A  Leaf  from  the  Devil's  Jest-Book  44 

The  Paymaster  46 

The  Last  Furrow  47 

In  the  Storm  49 

After  Reading  Shakspere  50 

The  Hidden  Valley  52 

The  Poets  53 

Love's  Vigil  54 

Two  at  a  Fireside  56 

The  Butterfly  57 

To  William  Watson  58 

Keats  A-Dying  59 

Man  60 

The  Cricket  61 

In   High  Sierras  62 

The  Wharf  of  Dreams  63 

To  Louise  Michel  65 

Shepherd  Boy  and  Nereid  66 

A  Song  at  the  Start  68 

My  Comrade  70 


The    Contents 

A  Lyric  of  the  Dawn  71 

Joy  of  the  Morning  80 

The  Waning  Lamp  81 

A  Satyr  Song  83 

A  Cry  in  the  Night  84 

Fays  85 

In   Death  Valley  86 

Business  87 

''Follow  Me"  88 

In   Poppy   Fields  89 

The  Joy  of  the  Hills  90 

The  Invisible  Bride  92 

The  Valley  94 

The  Climb  of  Life  95 

The  Tragedy  97 

Divine  Vision  98 

Midsummer  Noon  99 

One  Life,   One  Law  100 

Griefs   101 

An  Old  Road   102 

13 


The    Contents 

The  New  Comers   103 

Music   104 

Fay  Song  105 

The  Old  Earth   106 

Divine  Adventure   107 

Song  Made  Flesh   109 

To  High-born  Poets   no 

The  Toilers   1 1 2 

On  the  Gulf  of  Night   114 

A   Harvest  Song   116 

Two  Taverns   1 18 

The  Man  under  the  Stone   119 

Song  to  the  Divine  Mother  121 

The  Flying  Mist   127 

From  the   Hand  of  a  Child   129 

At  the  Meeting  of  Seven  Valleys  131 

The  Rock-Breaker   132 

These  Songs  Will   Perish   133 


The  Man  with  the  Hoe 

Written  after  seeing  Millet's  World-Famous  Painting 

God  made  man  in  His  own  image, 

in  the  image  of  God  made  He  him. — Genesis. 

Bowed  by  the  weight  of  centuries  he  leans 
Upon  his  hoe  and  gazes  on  the  ground, 
The  emptiness  of  ages  in  his  face, 
And  on  his  back  the  burden  of  the  world. 
Who  made  him  dead  to  rapture  and  despair, 
A    thing    that  grieves    not   and    that   never 

hopes, 

Stolid  and  stunned,  a  brother  to  the  ox  ? 
Who    loosened    and    let    down    this    brutal 

jaw  ? 
Whose  was  the  hand  that  slanted  back  this 

brow  ? 
Whose  breath  blew  out  the  light  within  this 

brain  ? 

15 


The  Man  with   the   Hoe 

Is  this  the  Thing  the  Lord  God  made  and 

gave 

To  have  dominion  over  sea  and  land  ; 
To  trace  the  stars  and  search  the  heavens 

for  power ; 

To  feel  the  passion  of  Eternity  ? 
Is  this  the  Dream  He  dreamed  who  shaped 

the  suns 

.And  pillared  the  blue  firmament  with  light  ? 
Down  all  the  stretch  of  Hell  to  its  last  gulf 
There  is  no  shape  more  terrible  than  this— 
More  tongued  with   censure   of  the  world's 

blind  greed- 
More  filled  with  signs  and   portents   for   the 

soul- 
More  fraught  with  menace  to  the  universe. 

What  gulfs  between  him  and  the  seraphim  ! 
Slave  of  the  wheel  of  labor,  what  to  him 
Are  Plato  and  the  swing  of  Pleiades  ? 
What  the  long  reaches  of  the  peaks  of  song, 
The    rift    of    dawn,    the    reddening    of    the 
rose  ? 

16 


The  Man  with  the  Hoe 

Through  this  dread  shape  the  suffering  ages 

look ; 

Time's  tragedy  is  in  that  aching  stoop  ; 
Through  this  dread  shape  humanity  betrayed, 
Plundered,  profaned  and  disinherited, 
Cries  protest  to  the  Judges  of  the  World, 
A  protest  that  is  also  prophecy. 

O  masters,  lords  and  rulers  in  all  lands, 
Is  this  the  handiwork  you  give  to  God, 
This    monstrous    thing    distorted   and    soul- 
quenched  ? 

How  will  you  ever  straighten  up  this  shape  ; 
Touch  it  again  with  immortality  ; 
Give  back  the  upward  looking  and  the  light ; 
Rebuild  in  it  the  music  and  the  dream  ; 
Make  right  the  immemorial  infamies, 
Perfidious  wrongs,  immedicable  woes  ? 

O  masters,  lords  and  rulers  in  all  lands, 
How  will   the  Future  reckon  with  this  Man  ? 
How  answer  his  brute  question  in  that  hour 
When    whirlwinds   of     rebellion    shake   the 

world  ? 

2  17 


The  Man  with   the  Hoe 

How  will    it    be  with    kingdoms   and    with 

kings— 
With  those  who  shaped  him   to  the  thing  he 

is — 

When  this  dumb  Terror  shall  reply  to  God, 
After  the  silence  of  the  centuries  ? 


A  Look  into  the  Gulf 

I  looked  one  night,  and  there  Semiramis, 
With  all  her  mourning  doves  about  her  head, 
Sat  rocking  on  an  ancient  road  of   Hell, 
Withered  and  eyeless,  chanting  to  the  moon 
Snatches  of  song  they  sang  to  her  of  old 
Upon  the  lighted  roofs  of  Nineveh. 
And  then  her  voice  rang  out  with  rattling 

laugh  : 

"  The  bugles  !  they  are  crying  back  again — 
Bugles  that  broke  the  nights  of  Babylon, 
And  then  went  crying  on  through  Nineveh. 

Stand  back,  ye  trembling  messengers  of  ill ! 
Women,  let  go  my  hair :  I  am  the  Queen, 
A  whirlwind  and  a  blaze  of  swords  to  quell 
Insurgent  cities.      Let  the  iron  tread 
Of   armies   shake   the    earth.       Look,    lofty 
towers  : 

19 


A  Look  into  the    Gulf 

Assyria  goes  by  upon  the  wind  ! " 
And  so  she  babbles  by  the  ancient  road, 
While  cities  turned  to  dust  upon  the  Earth 
Rise  through  her  whirling  brain  to  live  again — 
Babbles  all  night,  and  when  her  voice  is  dead 
Her  weary  lips  beat  on  without  a  sound. 


Brotherhood 

The  crest  and  crowning  of  all  good, 
Life's  final  star,  is  Brotherhood; 
For  it  will  bring  again  to  Earth 
Her  long-lost  Poesy  and  Mirth  ; 
Will  send  new  light  on  every  face, 
A  kingly  power  upon  the  race. 
And  till  it  come,  we  men  are  slaves, 
And  travel  downward  to  the  dust  of  graves. 

Come,  clear  the  way,  then,  clear  the  way  : 
Blind  creeds  and  kings  have  had  their  day. 
Break  the  dead  branches  from  the  path ; 
Our  hope  is  in  the  aftermath — • 
Our  hope  is  in  heroic  men, 
Star-led  to  build  the  world  again. 
To  this  Event  the  ages  ran  : 
Make  way  for  Brotherhood — make  way  for 
Man, 

21 


Song  of  the  Followers  of  Pan 

Our  bursting  bugles  blow  apart 
The  gates  of  cities  as  we  go ; 

We  bring  the  music  of  the  heart 
From  secret  wells  in  Lillimo'. 

We  break  in  music  on  the  morns — 
Sing  of  the  flower  to  stirring  roots ; 

Apollo's  cry  is  in  the  horns, 

And  Hermes'  whisper  in  the  flutes. 

We  come  with  laughter  to  the  Earth, 
And  lightly  stir  the  heading  wheat : 

Our  God  is  Poesy  and  Mirth, 

And  loves  the  noise  of  woodland  feet. 

When  dancers  beat  the  air  to  sound, 
After  the  time  of  yellow  sheaves, 

He  stops  to  watch  the  merry  round, 
His  pleased  face  looking  through  the 
leaves. 


Little  Brothers  of  the  Ground 

Little  ants  in  leafy  wood, 
Bound  by  gentle  Brotherhood, 
While  ye  gaily  gather  spoil, 
Men  are  ground  by  the  wheel  of  toil ; 
While  ye  follow  Blessed  Fates, 
Men  are  shriveled  up  with  hates. 
Yes,  they  eat  the  wayside  dust, 
While  their  souls  are  gnawed  by  rust. 

Ye  are  fraters  in  your  hall, 
Gay  and  chainless,  great  and  small ; 
All  are  toilers  in  the  field, 
All  are  sharers  in  the  yield. 
But  we  mortals  plot  and  plan 
How  to  grind  the  fellow-man  ; 
Glad  to  find  him  in  a  pit, 
If  we  get  some  gain  of  it. 
So  with  us,  the  sons  of  Time, 
Labor  is  a  kind  of  crime, 
23 


Little  Brothers  of  tke   Ground 

For  the  toilers  have  the  least, 
While  the  idlers  lord  the  feast. 
Yes,  our  workers  they  are  bound, 
Pallid  captives  to  the  ground  ; 
Jeered  by  traitors,  fooled  by  knaves, 
Till  they  stumble  into  graves. 

How  appears  to  tiny  eyes 
All  this  wisdom  of  the  wise  ? 


24 


Wail  of  the  Wandering  Dead 

Death,  too,  is  a  chimera  and  betrays, 

And  yet  they  promised  we   should  enter 
rest ; 

Death  is  as  empty  as  the  cup  of  days, 
And  bitter  milk  is  in  her  wintry  breast. 

There  is  no  worth  in  any  world  to  come, 
Nor  any  in  the  world  we  left  behind  ; 

And  what  remains  of  all  our  masterdom  ? — 
Only  a  cry  out  of  the  crumbling  mind. 

We  played  all  comers  at  the  old  Gray  Inn, 
But   played    the   King   of   Players   to  our 

cost. 
We  played  Him  fair  and  had  no  chance  to 

win  : 

The  dice  of  God  were  loaded  and  we  lost. 
25 


Wall  of  the   Wandering  Dead 

We  wander,   wander,   and   the   nights  come 

down 
With   starless   darkness  and   the    rush    of 

rains  ; 

We  drift  as  phantoms  by  the  songless  town, 
We  drift  as  litter  on  the  windy  lanes. 

Hope  is  the  fading  vision  of  the  heart, 

A  mocking  spirit  throwing  up  wild  hands. 

She  led  us  on  with  music  at  the  start, 

To  leave  us  at  dead  fountains  in  the  sands. 

Now  all  our  days  are  but  a  cry  for  sleep, 
For  we  are  weary  of  the  petty  strife. 

Is  there  not  somewhere  in  the  endless  deep 
A  place  where  we  can  lose  the  feel  of  life  ? 

Where  we  can  be  as  senseless  as  the  dust 
The   night   wind  blows  about   a   dried-up 

well? 
Where  there  is  no  more  labor,   no  more  lust, 

Nor  any  flesh  to  feel  the  Tooth  of  Hell  ? 
26 


Wail  of  the    Wandering  Dead 

Our  feet  are  ever  sliding,  and  we  seem 
As  old  and  weary  as  the  pyramids. 

Come,  God  of  Ages,  and  dispel  the  dream, 
Fold  the  worn  hands  and  close  the  sinking 
lids. 

There  is  no  new  road  for  the  dead  to  take  : 
Wild    hearts    are  we    among    the   worlds 

astray- 
Wild  hearts  are  we  that  cannot  wholly  break, 
But  linger  on  though  life  has  gone  away. 

We  are  the  sons  of  Misery  and  Eld  : 

Come,  tender  Death,  with  all  your  hushing 
wings, 

And  let  our  broken  spirits  be  dispelled — 
Let  dead  men  sink  into  the  dusk  of  things. 


A  Prayer 

Teach  me,  Father,  how  to  go 
Softly  as  the  grasses  grow  ; 
Hush  my  soul  to  meet  the  shock 
Of  the  wild  world  as  a  rock  ; 
But  my  spirit,  propt  with  power, 
Make  as  simple  as  a  flower. 
Let  the  dry  heart  fill  its  cup, 
Like  a  poppy  looking  up  ; 
Let  life  lightly  wear  her  crown, 
Like  a  poppy  looking  down,. 
When  its  heart  is  filled  with  dew, 
And  its  life  begins  anew. 

Teach  me,  Father,  how  to  be 
Kind  and  patient  as  a  tree. 
Joyfully  the  crickets  croon 

Under  shady  oak  at  noon  ; 

28 


A  Prayer 

Beetle,  on  his  mission  bent, 
Tarries  in  that  cooling  tent. 
Let  me,  also,  cheer  a  spot, 
Hidden  field  or  garden  grot — 
Place  where  passing  souls  can  rest 
On  the  way  and  be  their  best. 


The  Poet 

His  home  is  on  the  heights  :  to  him 
Men  wage  a  battle  weird  and  dim, 
Life  is  a  mission  stern  as  fate, 
And  Song  a  dread  apostolate. 
The  toils  of  prophecy  are  his, 
To  hail  the  coming  centuries— 
To  ease  the  steps  and  lift  the  load 
Of  souls  that  falter  on  the  road. 
The  perilous  music  that  he  hears 
Falls  from  the  vortice  of  the  spheres. 

He  presses  on  before  the  race, 
And  sings  out  of  a  silent  place. 
Like  faint  notes  of  a  forest  bird 
On  heights  afar  that  voice  is  heard ; 
And  the  dim  path  he  breaks  to-day 
Will  some  time  be  a  trodden  way. 
30 


The   Poet 

But  when  the  race  comes  toiling  on 
That  voice  of  wonder  will  be  gone — 
Be  heard  on  higher  peaks  afar, 
Moved  upward  with  the  morning  star. 

O  men  of  earth,  that  wandering  voice 
Still  goes  the  upward  way  :  rejoice  ! 


The  Whirlwind  Road 

The  Muses  wrapped  in  mysteries  of  light 
Came  in  a  rush  of  music  on  the  night ; 
And  I  was  lifted  wildly  on  quick  wings, 
And  borne  away  into  the  deep  of  things. 
The  dead  doors  of  my  being  broke  apart ; 
A  wind  of  rapture  blew  across  the  heart ; 
The  inward  song  of  worlds  rang  still  and  clear ; 
I  felt  the  Mystery  the  Muses  fear ; 
Yet  they  went  swiftening  on  the  ways  untrod, 
And  hurled  me  breathless  at  the  feet  of  God. 

I  felt  faint  touches  of  the  Final  Truth- 
Moments  of  trembling  love,  moments  of  youth. 
A  vision  swept  away  the  human  wall ; 
Slowly  I  saw  the  meaning  of  it  all — 
Meaning  of  life  and  time  and  death  and  birth, 
But  can  not  tell  it  to  the  men  of  Earth. 
I  only  point  the  way,  and  they  must  go 
The  whirlwind  road  of  song  if  they  would 

know. 

32 


The  Desire  of  Nations 

And  the  government  shall  be  upon  His  shoulder:  and  His  name 
shall  be  called  Wonderful,  Counsellor,  The  mighty  God,  The  ever 
lasting  Father,  The  Prince  of  Peace. — Isaiah. 

Earth  will  go  back  to  her  lost  youth, 

And  life  grow  deep  and  wonderful  as  truth, 

When    the    wise    King    out    of  the   nearing 

Heaven  comes 

To  break  the  spell  of  long  millenniums — 
To  build  with  song  again 
The  broken  hope  of  men — 
To  hush  and  heroize  the  world, 
Under  the  flag  of  Brotherhood  unfurled. 
And  He  will  come  some  day  : 
Already  is  His  star  upon  the  way ! 
He  comes,  O  world,  He  comes  ! 
But  not  with  bugle-cry  nor  roll  of  doubling 

drums. 

Nay,  for  He  comes  to  loosen  and  unbind, 
To  build  the  lofty  purpose  in  the  mind, 

3  33 


The  Desire  of  Nations 

To  stir  the  heart's  deep  chord.     .     .     . 
No  rude  horns  parleying,  no  shock  of  shields; 
Nor  as  of  old  the  glory  of  the  Lord 
To  half-awakened  shepherds  in  the  fields, 
Looking  with  foolish  faces  on  the  rush 
Of  the  Great  Splendor,  when  the  pulsing  hush 
Came  o'er  the  hills,  came  o'er  the  heavens  afar 
Where  on  their  cliff  of   stars   the  watching 
seraphs  are. 

Nor  as  of  old  when  first  the  Strong  One  trod, 
The  Power  of  sepulchers — our  Risen  God  ! 
When  on  that  deathless  morning  in  the  dark, 

o 

He  quit  the  Garden  of  the  Sepulcher, 

Setting  the  oleander  boughs  astir, 

And    pausing    at    the    gate    with     backward 

hark.— 

Nay,  nor  as  when  the  Hero-King  of  Heaven 
Came  with  upbraiding  to  His  faint  Eleven, 
And  found  the  world-way  to  His  bright  feet 

barred, 
And    hopeless   then    because    men's    hearts 

were  hard. 

34 


The  Desire  of  Nations 

Nor  will  He  come  like  carnal  kings  of  old, 
With  pomp  of  pilfered  gold ; 
Nor  like  the  pharisees  with  pride  of  prayer ; 
Nor     as     the     stumbling     foolish    stewards 

dream 

In  tedious  argument  and  milkless  creed, 
But  in  the  passion  of  the  heart-warm  deed 
Will  come  the  Man  Supreme. 
Yea,  for  He  comes  to  lift  the  Public  Care — 
To  build  on  Earth  the  Vision  hung  in  air. 
This  is  the  one  fulfillment  of  His  Law— 
The  one  Fact  in  the  mockeries  that  seem. 
This  is  the  Vision  that  the  prophets  saw — 
The    Comrade    Kingdom   builded    in    their 

dream, 

No,  not  as  in  that  elder  day 

Conies  now  the  King  upon  the  human  way. 

He  comes  with  power :    His  white  unf earing 

face 
Shines    through   the   Social    Passion   of   the 

race. 
He  comes  to  frame  the  freedom  of  the  Law, 

35 


The    Desire   of  Nations 

To  touch  these  men  of  Earth 

With    a    feeling    of   life's    oneness    and    its 

worth, 
A  feeling  of  its  mystery  and  awe. 

And  when   He  comes  into  the  world  gone 

wrong, 

He  will  rebuild  her  beauty  with  a  song. 
To  every  heart  He  will  its  own  dream  be  : 
One  moon  has  many  phantoms  in  the  sea. 
Out    of    the   North    the    norns    will    cry   to 

men  : 

"  Balder  the  Beautiful  has  come  again  ! " 
The  flutes  of  Greece  will  whisper  from  the 

dead  : 

"Apollo  has  unveiled  his  sunbright  head!" 
The  stones    of  Thebes    and    Memphis   will 

find  voice  : 

"  Osiris  comes  :  O  tribes  of  Time,  rejoice  !  " 
And  social  architects  who  build  the  State, 
Serving  the  Dream  at  citadel  and  gate, 
Will  hail   Him   coming  through   the   labor- 
hum. 

36 


The  Desire  of  Nations 

And  glad  quick  cries  will  go  from  man  to 

man  : 

"  Lo,  He  has  come,  our  Christ  the  Artisan — 
The    King   who    loved    the    lilies,    He    has 

come  ! " 

He  will  arrive,  our  Counselor  and  Chief. 
And  with  bleak  faces  lighted  up  will  come 
The  earth-worn  mothers  from  their  martyr 
dom, 

To  tell  Him  of  their  grief. 
And  glad  girls  caroling  from  field  and  town 
Will  go  to  meet  Him  with  the  labor-crown, 
The    new    crown    woven    of    the    heading 

wheat. 

And  men  will  sit  down  at  His  sacred  feet ; 
And  He  will  say — the  King — 
"  Come,  let  us  live  the  poetry  we  sing ! " 
And  these,    His  burning  words,  will  break 

the  ban — 

Words  that  will  grow  to  be, 
On  continent,  on  sea, 
The  rallying  cry  of  man.     .     .     . 

37 


The  Desire  of  Nations 

He  comes  to  make  the  long  injustice  right — 
Comes    to    push    back    the    shadow    of    the 

night, 

The  gray  Tradition  full  of  flint  and  flaw- 
Comes  to  wipe  out  the  insults  to  the  soul, 
The  insults  of  the  Few  against  the  Whole, 
The  insults  they  make  righteous  with  a  law. 

Yea,  He  will  bear  the  Safety  of  the  State, 
For  in  his  still  and  rhythmic  steps  will  be 
The  power  and  music  of  Alcyone, 
Who  holds  the  swift  heavens  in  their  starry 

fate. 
Yea,    He    will    lay    on    souls   the    power  of 

peace, 
And   send   on  kingdoms  torn  the  sense    of 

home — 
More  than   the   fire  of  Joy  that  burned  on 

Greece, 
More   than   the  light  of  Law  that  rose  on 

Rome. 


The  Elf  Child 

I  am  a  child  of  the  reef  and  the  blowing  spray, 

And  all  my  heart  goes  wildly  to  the  sea. 

I  am  a  changeling  :  can  you  follow  me 
Through  hill  and  hollow  on  the  wind's  dim 

way  ? 
Yes,  at  the  break  of  a  tempestuous  day 

They  bore  me  to  the  land  through  starless 
storm, 

And  laid  me  in  the  pillow  sweetly  warm 
And  broken  by  the  first  one's  little  stay. 

The  elf  kings  found  me  on  an  ocean  reef, 
A  lyric  child  of  mystery  and  grief. 

Then  need  I  tell  you  why  the  trembling 

start — 

Why  in  my  song  the  sound  of  ocean  dwells — 
Why  the   quick  gladness  when    the    billow 

swells, 

As  though  remembered  voices  called  the 
heart  ? 


The  Goblin  Laugh 

When  I  behold  how  men  and  women  grind 
And  grovel  for   some    place  of   pomp  or 

power, 
To  shine  and  circle  through  a  crumbling 

hour, 

Forgetting  the  large  mansions  of  the  mind, 
That  are  the  rest  and  shelter  of  mankind ; 
And  when  I  see  them  come  with  wearied 

brains 

Pallid  and  powerless  to  enjoy  their  gains, 
I  seem  to  hear  a  goblin  laugh  unwind. 

And  then  a  memory  sends  upon  its  billow 
Thoughts  of  a  singer  wise  enough  to  play, 
Who  took  life  as  a  lightsome  holiday: 
Oft  have  I  seen  him  make  his  arm  a  pillow, 
Drink  from  his  hand,  and  with  a  pipe  of  wil 
low 

Blow  a  wild  music  down  a  woodland  way. 

40 


Poetry 

She  comes  like  the  hush  and  beauty  of  the 
night, 

And  sees  too  deep  for  laughter ; 
Her  touch  is  a  vibration  and  a  light 

From  worlds  before  and  after. 


A  Meeting 

Softly  she  came  one  twilight  from  the  dead, 
And  in  the  passionate  silence  of  her  look 
Was  more  than  man  has  writ  in  any  book  : 

And  now  my  thoughts  are    restless,   and  a 
dread 

Calls  them  to  the  Dim  Land  discomforted  ; 
For  down   the  leafy  ways  her  white  feet 

took, 
Lightly  the  newly  broken  roses  shook — 

Was  it  the  wind  disturbed  each  rosy  head  ? 

God  !  was  it  joy  or  sorrow  in  her  face — 
That   quiet  face  ?      Had  it  grown   old  or 

young  ? 
Was  it  sweet  memory  or  sad  that  stung 

Her  voiceless  soul  to  wander  from  its  place? 

What  do  the  dead  find  in  the  Silence — grace  ? 
Or   endless   grief    for  which    there    is   no 

tongue  ? 

42 


Infinite  Depths 

The  little  pool,  in  street  or  field  apart, 

Glasses  the  deep  heavens  and  the  rushing 
storm ; 

And  into  the  silent  depths  of  every  heart, 
The  Eternal  throws  its  awful  shadow-form. 


43 


A  Leaf  from  the   Devil's  Jest-Book 

Beside  the  sewing-table  chained  and  bent, 
They   stitch   for  the   lady,   tyrannous   and 

proud — 
For    her    a    wedding-gown,    for    them     a 

shroud  ; 
They  stitch   and  stitch,  but   never  mend  the 

rent 
Torn  in  life's  golden   curtains.     Glad  Youth 

went, 
And  left  them  alone  with  Time  ;  and  now 

if  bowed 
With  burdens    they   should   sob   and    cry 

aloud, — 

Wondering,  the  filled  would  look  from  their 
content. 

And  so  this  glimmering  life  at  last  recedes 
In  unknown,  endless  depths  beyond  recall ; 

44 


A  Leaf  from  the  Devil's   "Jest-Book 

And   what's   the   worth    of    all    our  ancient 

creeds, 

If  here  at  the  end  of  ages  this  is  all — 
A  white  face  floating  in  the  whirling  ball, 

A  dead  face  plashing  in  the  river  reeds  ? 


45 


The    Paymaster 

There  is  a  sacred  Something  on  all  ways — 
Something  that  watches  through  the  Uni 
verse  ; 

One  that  remembers,  reckons  and  repays, 
Giving   us  love    for    love,    and    curse   for 
curse. 


The  Last   Furrow 

The     Spirit    of    Earth,    with    still    restoring 

hands, 
'Mid    ruin    moves,    in    glimmering    chasm 

gropes, 
And  mosses  mantle  and  the  bright  flower 

opes ; 
But   Death  the    Ploughman    wanders   in   all 

lands, 

And  to  the  last  of  Earth  his  furrow  stands. 
The  grave  is  never  hidden  ;  fearful  hopes 
Follow  the  dead  upon  the  fading  slopes, 
And  there  wild  memories  meet  upon  the 
sands. 

When  willows  fling  their  banners  to  the  plain, 
When  rumor  of  winds  and  sound  of  sudden 
showers 

47 


The  Last  Furrow 

Disturb  the  dream  of  winter — all  in  vain 
The  grasses  hurry  to  the  graves,  the  flowers 
Toss    their   wild   torches  on   their   windy 
towers ; 

Yet  are  the  bleak  graves  lonely  in  the  rain. 


In  the  Storm 

I  huddled  close  against  the  mighty  cliff. 
A  sense  of  safety  and  of  brotherhood 
Broke  on  the  heart :  the  shelter  of  a  rock 
Is  sweeter  than  the  roofs  of  all  the  world. 


49 


After  Reading  Shakspere 

Blithe  Fancy  lightly  builds  with  airy  hands 
Or  on  the  edges  of  the  darkness  peers, 
Breathless  and  frightened  at  the  Voice  she 

hears  : 

Imagination  (lo  !  the  sky  expands) 
Travels     the     blue     arch     and     Cimmerian 

sands, — 
Homeless    on    earth,    the   pilgrim   of    the 

spheres, 
The   rush    of   light    before    the    hurrying 

years, 
The  Voice  that  cries  in  unfamiliar  lands. 

Men  weigh  the  moons  that  flood  with  eerie 

light 

The    dusky   vales    of    Saturn — wood    and 
stream  ; 

50 


After  Reading  Shakspere 

But  who  shall  follow  on  the  awful  sweep 
Of  Neptune  through  the  dim  and  dreadful 

deep  ? 

Onward  he  wanders  in  the  unknown  night, 
And  we  are  shadows  moving  in  a  dream. 


The  Hidden  Valley 

I  stray  with  Ariel  and  Caliban  : 

I  know  the  hill  of  windy  pines — I  know 
Where  the  jay's  nest  swings  in  the  wild 

gorge  below : 

Lightly  I  climb  where  fallen  cedars  span 
Bright  rivers — climb  to  a  valley  under  ban, 
Where   west  winds  set    a  thousand   bells 

ablow — 
An    eerie    valley   where    in    the    morning 

glow 
I  hear  the  music  of  the  pipes  of  Pan. 

Mysterious  horns  blow  by  on  the  still  air — 
A  satyr  steps — a  wood-god's  dewy  notes 
Come  faintly  from  a  vale  of  tossing  oats.— 
But   ho !    what  white  thing   in   the    canyon 

crossed  ? 

Gods !  I  shall  come  on  Dian  unaware, 
Look  on  her  fearful  beauty  and  be  lost. 

52 


The  Poets 

Some  cry  of  Sappho's  lyre,  of  Saadi's  flute, 
Comes  back  across  the  waste   of   mortal 

things  : 
Men  strive  and  die  to  reach  the  Dead  Sea 

fruit — 
Only  the  poets  find  immortal  springs. 


53 


Love's  Vigil 

Love  will  outwatch  the  stars,  and  light  the 

skies 
When   the   last   star  falls,   and   the   silent 

dark  devours  ; 
God's  warrior,   he  will  watch   the  allotted 

hours, 

And  conquer  with  the  look  of  his  sad  eyes  : 
He  shakes  the  kingdom  of  darkness  with  his 

sighs, 
His    quiet    sighs,   while    all    the    Infernal 

Powers 
Tremble    and    pale    upon     their    central 

towers, 
Lest,  haply,  his  bright  universe  arise. 

All  will  be  well  if  he  have  strength  to  wait, 
Till  his  lost  Pleiad,  white  and  silver-shod, 
Regains    her    place    to    make    the    perfect 
Seven ; 

54 


Love's   Vigil 

Then  all  the  worlds  will  know  that  Love  is 

Fate- 
That    somehow   he    is    greater    even    than 

Heaven — 
That  in  the  Cosmic  Council  he  is  God. 


5S 


Two  at  a  Fireside 

I  built  a  chimney  for  a  comrade  old  ; 

I  did  the  service  not  for  hope  or  hire  : 
And  then  I  traveled  on  in  winter's  cold, 

Yet  all  the  day  I  glowed  before  the  fire. 


The  Butterfly 

O  winged  brother  on  the  harebell,  stay — 
Was  God's  hand  very  pitiful,  the  hand 
That  wrought  thy  beauty  at  a  dream's  de 
mand  ? 

Yes,  knowing  I  love  so  well  the  flowery  way, 

He  did  not  fling  me  to  the  world  astray — 
He  did  not  drop  me  to  the  weary  sand, 
But  bore  me  gently  to  a  leafy  land: 

Tinting  my  wings.  He  gave  me  to  the  day. 

Oh,  chide  no  more  my  doubting,  my  despair  ! 

I  will  go  back  now  to  the  world  of  men. 
Farewell,  I  leave  thee  to  the  world  of  air, 

Yet  thou  hast  girded  up  my  heart  again  ; 
For  He  that  framed  the  impenetrable  plan, 
And  keeps  His  word  with  thee,  will  keep  with 
man. 

57 


To  William  Watson 

After  reading  "The  Purple  East" 

That  hour  you  put  the  wreath  of  England  by 
To  shake  her  guilty  heart  with  song  sub 
lime, 

The  mighty  Muse  that  watches  from  the  sky 
Laid  on  your  head  the    larger  wreath  of 
Time. 


Keats  A-Dymg 

Often  of  that  Last  Hour  I  lie  and  think ; 
I  see  thee,  Keats,  nearing  the  Deathway 

dim- 
See  Severn  in  his  noiseless  hurry,  him 

Who  leaned  above  thee  fading  on  the  brink. 

What  is  that  wild  light  through  the  window 
chink  ? 

Is  it  the  burning  feet  of  cherubim  ? 

Or  is  it  the  white  moon  on  western  rim — 
Saint  Agnes'  moon  beginning  now  to  sink  ? 

How  did  Death  come — with  sounds  of  water- 
stir? 

With  forms  of  beauty  breaking  at  the  lips  ? 
With  field  pipes  and  the  scent  of  blowing  fir  ? 

Or  came  it  hurrying  like  a  last  eclipse, 
Sweeping  the  world  away  like  gossamer, 
Blotting  the  moon,  the  mountains,  and  the 
ships  ? 

59 


M 


an 


Out  of  the  deep  and  endless  universe 
There  came  a  greater  Mystery,  a  Shape, 
A  Something  sad,  inscrutable,  august- 
One   to   confront    the   worlds  and    question 
them. 


60 


The  Cricket 

The  twilight  is  the  morning  of  his  day. 

While  Sleep  drops  seaward  from  the  fad 
ing  shore, 

With  purpling  sail  and  dip  of  silver  oar, 
He    cheers    the    shadowed   time  with    roun 
delay, 
Until  the  dark  east  softens  into  gray. 

Now  as  the  noisy  hours  are  coming — hark  ! 

His  song  dies  gently — it  is  growing  dark — 
His  night,  with  its  one  star,  is  on  its  way  ! 

Faintly  the  light   breaks    over  the  blowing 

oats — 

Sleep,  little  brother,  sleep  :  I  am  astir. 
We  worship  Song,  and  servants  are  of  her — 
I  in  the  bright  hours,  thou  in  shadow-time : 
Lead  thou  the  starlit  night  with  merry  notes, 
And    I    will    lead   the    clamoring   day    with 
rhyme. 

6l 


In   High    Sierras 

There  at  a  certain  hour  of  the  deep  night, 
A  gray  cliff  with  a  demon  face  comes  up, 
Wrinkled  and  old,  behind  the  peaks,  and  with 
An  anxious  look  peers  at  the  Zodiac. 


The  Wharf  of  Dreams 

Strange  wares  are  handled  on  the  wharves 

of  sleep : 
Shadows   of    shadows    pass,    and   many   a 

light 

Flashes  a  signal  fire  across  the  night ; 
Barges    depart  whose    voiceless    steersmen 

keep 

Their  way  without  a  star  upon  the  deep  ; 
And  from  lost  ships,  homing  with  ghostly 

crews, 

Come  cries  of  incommunicable  news, 
While  cargoes  pile  the  piers,  a  moon-white 
heap — 

Budgets  of  dream-dust,  merchandise  of  song, 
Wreckage   of    hope    and    packs  of    ancient 
wrong, 

63 


The   Wharf  of  Dreams 

Nepenthes  gathered  from  a  secret  strand, 
Fardels  of  heartache,  burdens  of  old  sins, 
Luggage  sent  down  from  dim  ancestral  inns, 

And  bales  of  fantasy  from  No-Man's  Land. 


To  Louise  Michel 

I  cannot  take  your  road,  Louise  Michel, 
Priestess  of  Pity  and  of  Vengeance — no  : 
Down  that  amorphous  gulf  I  cannot  go — 

That  gulf  of  Anarchy  whose  pit  is  Hell. 

Yet,  sister,  though  my  first  word  is  farewell, 
Remember  that  I  know  your  hidden  woe ; 
Have  felt  the  grief  that  rends  you  blow  on 
blow  ; 

Have  knelt  beside  you  in  the  murky  cell. 

You  never  followed  hate  (let  this  atone) 
Nor  knew  the  wrongs  of  others  from  your 

own  : 
Wild  was  the  road,  but  Love  has  always 

led: 

So  I  am  silent  where  I  cannot  praise  ; 
And  here  now  at  the  parting  of  the  ways, 
I  lay  a  still  hand  lightly  on  your  head. 

5  65 


Shepherd  Boy  and  Nereid 

Ah,  once  of  old  in  some  forgotten  tongue, 
Forgotten  land,  I  was  a  shepherd  boy, 
And  you  a  Nereid,  a  winged  joy : 
On    through    the    dawn-bright    peaks     our 

bodies  swung, 

And  flower-soft  lyrics  by  immortals  sung 
Fell     from     their     unseen     pinnacles    in 

air  : 
God  looked  from   Heaven  that  hour,  for 

you  were  fair, 
And  I  a  poet,  and  the  star  was  young. 

You'd  heard  my  woodland  pipe  and  left  the 

sea — 
Your  hair  blown  gold  and  all  your  body 

white- 
Had  left  the  ocean-girls  to  follow  me. 

66 


Shepherd  Boy  and  Nereid 

We  joined  the  hill-nymphs  in  their  joyous 

flight, 

And  you  laughed  lightly  to  the  sea,  and  sent 
Quick   glances    flashing    through    me    as    I 
went. 


67 


A  Song  at  the  Start 

Oh,    down    the    quick    river    our    galley    is 

going, 
With  a  sound  in  the  cordage,  a  beam  on 

the  sail : 
The  wind  of  the  canyon  our  loose  hair  is 

blowing, 
And  the  clouds  of  the  morning  are  glad 

of  the  gale. 

Around    the    swift    prow    little    billows    are 

breaking, 
And    flinging    their   foam    in    a    glory   of 

light ; 
Now   the   shade  of  a  rock  on   the   river  is 

shaking, 

And  a  wave   leaping  upward  grows   sud 
denly  white. 

68 


A  Song  at  the  Start 

The  weight   of  the  whole  world  is  light  as  a 

feather, 
And  the  peaks  rise  in  silence  and  westerly 

flee: 

Oh,  the  world  and  the  poet  are  singing  to 
gether, 

And  from  the  far  cliff  comes  a  sound  of 
the  sea. 


My  Comrade 

I  never  build  a  song  by  night  or  day, 
Of  breaking  ocean  or  of  blowing  whin, 

But  in  some  wondrous  unexpected  way, 
Like  light  upon  a  road,  my  Love  comes  in. 

And  when  I  go  at  night  upon  the  hill, 
My  heart  is  lifted  on  mysterious  wings  : 

My  Love  is  there  to  strengthen  and  to  still, 
For  she  can  take  away  the  dread  of  things. 


A  Lyric  of  the  Dawn 

Alone  I  list 

In  the  leafy  tryst ; 

Silent  the  woodlands  in  their  starry  sleep — 
Silent  the  phantom  wood  in  waters  deep  : 
No  footfall  of  a  wind  along  the  pass 
Startles  a  harebell — stirs  a  blade  of  grass. 

Yonder  the  wandering  weeds, 

Enchanted  in  the  light, 

Stand     in    the     gusty     hollows,     still     and 
white  ; 

Yonder  are  plumy  reeds, 
Dusking  the  border  of  the  clear  lagoon  ; 

Far  off  the  silver  clifts 
Hang  in  ethereal  light  below  the  moon ; 

Far  off  the  ocean  lifts, 
Tossing  its  billows  in  the  misty  beam, 
And  shore-lines  whiten,  silent  as  a  dream : 

71 


A  Lyric  of  the  Dawn 

I  hark  for  the  bird,  and  all  the  hushed  hills 

harken  : 

This  is  the  valley :  here  the  branches  darken 
The  silver-lighted  stream. 


Hark- 
That  rapture  in  the  leafy  dark  ! 
Who  is  it  shouts  upon  the  bough  aswing, 
Waking  the  upland  and  the  valley  under? 
What  carols,  like  the  blazon  of  a  king, 
Fill  all  the  dawn  with  wonder  ? 

Oh,  hush, 
It  is  the  thrush, 
In  the  deep  and  woody  glen  ! 
Ah,    thus   the   gladness    of    the    gods    was 

sung, 

When  the  old  Earth  was  young ; 
That  rapture  rang, 
When  the    first  morning  on  the  mountains 

sprang : 

And  now  he  shouts,  and  the  world  is  young 
again  ! 

72 


A  Lyric  of  the  Dawn 

Carol,  my  king, 

On  your  bough  aswing  ! 
Thou  art  not  of  these  evil  days — 
Thou  art  a  voice  of  the  world's  lost  youth  : 
Oh,  tell  me  what  is  duty — what  is  truth- 
How  to  find  God  upon  these  hungry  ways ; 

Tell  of  the  golden  prime, 
When  bird  and  beast  could  make  a  man  their 

friend ; 

When  men  beheld  swift  deities  descend, 
Before  the  race  was  left  alone  with  Time, 
Homesick  on  Earth,  and  homeless  to  the  end; 

Before  great  Pan  was  dead, 

Before  the  naiads  fled ; 
When  maidens  white  with  dark  eyes  shy  and 

bold, 
With  peals  of  laughter  on  the  peaks  of  gold, 

Startled  the  still  dawn- 
Shone  in  upon  the  mountains  and  were  gone, 
Their  voices  fading  silverly  in  depths  of  for 
ests  old. 

Sing  of  the  wonders  of  their  woodland  ways, 
Before  the  weird  earth-hunger  of  these  days, 

73 


A  Lyric  of  the  Dawn 

When  there  was  rippling  mirth, 

When  justice  was  on  Earth, 
And  light  and  grandeur  of  the  Golden  Age ; 

When  never  a  heart  was  sad, 

When  all  from  king  to  herdsman  had 

A  penny  for  a  wage. 

Ah,  that  old  time  has  faded  to  a  dream — 
The  moon's  fair  face  is  broken  in  the  stream  ; 
Yet  shout  and  carol  on,  O  bird,  and  let 
The  exiled  race  not  utterly  forget ; 
Publish  thy  revelation  on  the  lawns — 
Sing  ever  in  the  dark  ethereal  dawns ; 

Sometime,  in  some  sweet  year, 
These  stormy  souls,  these  men  of  Earth  may 
hear. 

But  hark  again, 

From  the  secret  glen, 
That  voice  of  rapture  and  ethereal  youth 

Now  laden  with  despair. 

Forbear,  O  bird,  forbear : 
Is  life  not  terrible  enough  forsooth  ? 

Cease,  cease  the  mystic  song — 

74 


A  Lyric  of  the  Dawn 

No  more,  no  more,  the  passion  and  the  pain  : 
It  wakes  my  life  to  fret  against  the  chain  ; 
It  makes  me  think  of  all  the  aged  wrong— 
Of  joy  and  the  end  of  joy  and  the  end  of 

all- 
Of  souls  on  Earth,  and  souls  beyond  recall. 

Ah,  ah,  that  voice  again  ! 
It  makes  me  think  of  all  these  restless  men, 
Called   into  time — their  progress    and    their 

goal; 

And  now,  oh  now,  it  sends  into  my  soul 
Dreams  of  a  love  that  might  have  been  for 

me— 
That  might  have  been — and  now  can  never 

be. 

Tell  me  no  more  of  these — 

Tell  me  of  tranced  trees  ; 
(The  ghosts,  the  memories,  in  pity  spare) 
Show  me  the  leafy  home  of  the  wild  bees ; 
Show  me  the  snowy  summits  dim  in  air ; 

Tell  me  of  things  afar 
In  valleys  silent  under  moon  and  star: 

75 


A  Lyric  of  the  Dawn 

Dim  hollows  hushed  with  night, 
The  lofty  cedars  misty  in  the  light, 

Wild  clusters  of  the  vine, 

Wild  odors  of  the  pine, 
The  eagle's  eyrie  lifted  to  the  moon — 
High  places  where  on  quiet  afternoon 
A  shadow  swiftens  by,  a  thrilling  scream 
Startles  the  cliff,  and  dies  across  the  wood 
land  to  a  dream. 


Ha,  now 

He  springs  from  the  bough, 

It  flickers — he  is  lost ! 

Out  of  the  copse  he  sprang : 
This  is  the  floating  briar  where  he  tossed  : 
The  leaves  are  yet   atremble  where  he  sang. 

Here  a  long  vista  opens — look  ! 

This  is  the  way  he  took, 
Through  the  pale  poplars  by  the  pond  : 
Hark  !  he  is  shouting  in  the  field  beyond. 

Ho,  there  he  goes 

Through  the  alder  close  ! 

76 


A  Lyric  of  the  Dawn 

He  leaves  me  here  behind  him  in  his  flight, 
And    yet    my   heart   goes  with    him    out    of 

sight ! 

What  whispered  spell 
Of  Faery  calls  me  on  from  dell  to  dell  ? 
I  hear  the  voice — it  wanders  in  a  dream — 
Now  in  the  grove,  now  on  the  hill,  now  on 

the  fading  stream. 


Lead  on — you  know  the  way — 

Lead  on  to  Arcady, 

O'er  fields  asleep  ;  by  river  bank  abrim  ; 
Down  leafy  ways,  dewy  and  cool  and  dim ; 
By  dripping  rocks,  dark    dwellings    of    the 

gnome, 
Where  hurrying  waters  dash  their  crests  to 

foam. 

I  follow  where  you  lead, 

Down  winding  paths,  across  the  flowery  mead, 
Down    silent  hollows    where    the   woodbine 

blows, 
Up  water-courses  scented  by  the  rose. 

77 


A  Lyric  of  the  Dawn 

I  follow  the  wandering  voice — 

I  follow,  I  rejoice, 

I  fade  away  into  the  Age  of  Gold — 
We  two  together  lost  in  forest  old. — 
O  ferny  and  thymy  paths,  O  fields  of  Aidenn, 
Canyons  and  cliffs  by  mortal  feet  untrod  ! 
O  souls  that  weary  and  are  heavy  laden, 
Here  is  the  peace  of  God  ! 


Lo  !    now  the   clamoring   hours   are    on    the 

way : 

Faintly  the  pine  tops  redden  in  the  ray ; 
From  vale  to  vale  fleet-footed  rumors  run, 
With  sudden  apprehension  of  the  sun ; 

A  light  wind  stirs 
The  filmy  tops  of  delicate  dim  firs, 

And  on  the  river  border  blows, 
Breaking  the  shy  bud  softly  to  a  rose. 

Sing  out,  O  throstle,  sing  : 

I  follow  on,  my  king : 
Lead  me  forever  through  the  crimson  dawn — 

Till  the  world  ends,  lead  me  on  ! 


A  Lyric  of  the  Dawn 

Ho  there  !  he  shouts  again — he   sways — and 
now, 

Upspringing  from  the  bough, 
Flashing  a  glint  of  dew  upon  the  ground, 

Without  a  sound 
He  drops  into  a  valley  and  is  gone! 


79 


Joy  of  the  Morning 

I  hear  you,  little  bird, 
Shouting  aswing  above  the  broken  wall. 
Shout  louder  yet :  no  song  can  tell  it  all. 
Sing  to  my  soul  in  the  deep  still  wood  : 
'Tis  wonderful  beyond  the  wildest  word  : 
I'd  tell  it,  too,  if  I  could. 

Oft  when  the  white,  still  dawn 

Lifted  the  skies  and  pushed  the  hills  apart, 

I've  felt  it  like  a  glory  in  my  heart— 

(The  world's  mysterious  stir) 

But  had  no  throat  like  yours,  my  bird, 

Nor  such  a  listener. 


80 


The  Waning  Lamp 

Once,  I  remember,  the  world  was  young ; 
The  rills  rejoiced  with  a  silver  tongue  ; 
The  field-lark  sat  in  the  wheat  and  sang ; 
The  thrush's  shout  in  the  woodland  rang ; 
The  cliffs  and  the  perilous  sands  afar 
Were  softened  to  mist  by  the  morning  star  ; 
For  Youth  was  with  me  (I  know  it  now  !), 
And  a  light  shone  out  from  his  wreathed 

brow. 

He  turned  the  fields  to  enchanted  ground, 
He  touched  the  rains  with  a  dreamy  sound. 

But  alas,  he  vanished,  and  Time  appeared, 
The  Spirit  of  Ages,  old  and  weird. 
He  crushed  and  scattered  my  beamy  wings  ; 
He    dragged    me    forth    from    the    court    of 
kings ; 

6  Si 


The   Waning  Lamp 

He  gave  me  doubt  and  a  bloom  of  beard, 
This  Spirit  of  Ages,  old  and  weird. 
The  wonder  went  from  the  field  of  corn, 
The  glory  died  on  the  craggy  horn  ; 
And  suddenly  all  was  strange  and  gray, 
And  the  rocks  came  out  on  the  trodden  way. 

I  hear  no  more  the  wild  thrush  sing : 
He  is  silent  now  on  the  peach  aswing. 
Something  is  gone  from  the  house  of  mirth — 
Something  is  gone  from  the  hills  of  Earth. 
Time  hurries  me  on  with  a  wizard  hand ; 
He  turns  the  Earth  to  a  homeless  land ; 
He  stays  my  life  with  a  stingy  breath, 
And  darkens  its  depths  with  foreknowledge 

of  death  ; 

Calls  memories  back  on  their  path  apace  ; 
Sends  desperate  thoughts  to  the  soul's  dim 

place. 

Time    murders    our   youth    and    the    griefs 
begin, 

As  he  pushes  us  on  to  the  windowless  inn. 

82 


A  Satyr  Song 

I  know  by  the  stir  of  the  branches 

The  way  she  went ; 
And  at  times  I  can  see  where  a  stem 

Of  the  grass  is  bent. 
She's  the  secret  and  light  of  my  life, 

She  allures  to  elude  ; 
But  I  follow  the  spell  of  her  beauty 

Whatever  the  mood. 

I  have  followed  all  night  in  the  hills, 

And  my  breath  is  deep, 
But  she  flies  on  before  like  a  voice 

In  the  vale  of  sleep. 
I  follow  the  print  of  her  feet 

In  the  wild  river  bed, 
And  lo,  she  calls  gleefully  down 

From  a  cliff  overhead. 


A  Cry  in  the  Night 

Wail,  wail,  wail, 

For  the  fleering  world  goes  down  : 
Into  the  song  of  the  poet  pale 

Mixes  the  laugh  of  the  clown. 

Grim,  grim,  grim, 

Is  the  road  we  go  to  the  dead ; 
Yet  we  must  on,  for  a  Something  dim 

Pushes  the  soul  ahead. 

Where,  where,  where, 

Through  the  dust  and  shadow  of  things 
Will  the  fleeing  Fates  with  their  wild 
manes  bear 

These  tribes  of  slaves  and  kings? 


Fays 

One  secret  night,  I  stood  where  ocean  pours 
Eternal  waters  on  the  yellow  shores, 
And  saw  the  drift  of  fays  that  Prosper  saw  : 
(Their  feet  had  no  more  sound  than  blow 
ing  straw.) 

And  little  hands  held  light  in  little  hands 
They  chased  a  fleeing  billow  down  the  sands, 
But  turned  in  the  nick  o'  time,  and  mad  with 

glee 
Raced  back  again  before  the  swelling  sea. 


In  Death  Valley 

There  came  gray  stretches  of  volcanic  plains, 
Bare,   lone   and   treeless,  then  a  bleak  lone 

hill, 

Like  to  the  dolorous  hill  that  Dobell  saw. 
Around  were  heaps  of  ruins  piled  between 
The  Burn  o'  Sorrow  and  the  Water  o'  Care  ; 
And  from  the  stillness  of  the  down-crushed 

walls 

One  pillar  rose  up  dark  against  the  moon. 
There  was  a  nameless  Presence  everywhere ; 
In  the  gray  soil  there  was  a  purple  stain, 
And  the  gray  reticent  rocks  were  dyed  with 

blood — 

Blood  of  a  vast  unknown  Calamity. 
It  was  the  mark  of  some  ancestral  grief — 
Grief  that  began  before  the  ancient  Flood. 


86 


Business 

Just  then  the  branches  lightly  stirred.  .  . 
See,  out  o'  the  apple  boughs  a  bird 
Bursts  music-mad  into   the  blue  abyss : 
Rothschild  would  give  his  gold  for  this- 
The  wealth  of  nations,  if  he  knew : 
(And  find  a  profit  in  the  business,  too.) 


»7 


"  Follow  Me" 

0  friend,  we  never  choose  the  better  part. 
Until  we  set  the  Cross  up  in  the  heart. 

1  know  I  can  not  live  until    I  die- 
Till  I  am  nailed  upon  it  wild  and  high, 
And  sleep  in  the  tomb  for  a  full  three  days 

dead, 

With  angels  at  the  feet  and  at  the  head. 
But  then  in  a  great  brightness  I  shall  rise 
To  walk  with  stiller  feet  below  the  skies. 


88 


In  Poppy  Fields 

Here  the  poppy  hosts  assemble : 
How  they  startle,  how  they  tremble 
All  their  royal  hoods  unpinned 
Blow  out  lightly  in  the  wind. 

Men  that  in  the  cities  grind, 
Come  before  the  heart  is  blind. 
Here  is  gold  to  labor  for ; 
Here  is  pillage  worth  a  war  ! 


The  Joy  of  the  Hills 

I  ride  on  the  mountain  tops,  I  ride ; 
I  have  found  my  life  and  am  satisfied. 
Onward  I  ride  in  the  blowing  oats, 
Checking  the  field-lark's  rippling  notes — 

Lightly  I  sweep 

From  steep  to  steep  : 
Over  my  head  through  the  branches  high 
Come  glimpses  of  a  rushing  sky  ; 
The  tall  oats  brush  my  horse's  flanks  ; 
Wild  poppies  crowd  on  the  sunny  banks ; 
A  bee  booms  out  of  the  scented  grass ; 
A  jay  laughs  with  me  as  I  pass. 

I  ride  on  the  hills,  I  forgive,  I  forget 
Life's  hoard  of  regret — 
All  the  terror  and  pain 

Of  the  chafing  chain. 
90 


The  Joy  of  the  Hills 

Grind  on,  O  cities,  grind  : 
I  leave  you  a  blur  behind. 
I  am  lifted  elate — the  skies  expand : 
Here  the  world's    heaped   gold  is  a  pile  of 

sand. 
Let  them  weary  and  work  in  their   narrow 

walls  : 
I  ride  with  the  voices  of  waterfalls  ! 

I  swing  on  as  one  in  a  dream — I  swing 
Down  the  airy  hollows,  I  shout,  I  sing ! 
The  world  is  gone  like  an  empty  word  : 
My  body's  a  bough  in  the  wind,  my  heart  a 
bird! 


The  Invisible  Bride 

The  low-voiced  girls  that  go 
In  gardens  of  the  Lord, 

Like  flowers  of  the  field  they  grow 
In  sisterly  accord. 

Their  whispering  feet  are  white 

Along  the  leafy  ways  ; 
They  go  in  whirls  of  light 

Too  beautiful  for  praise. 

And  in  their  band  forsooth 

Is  one  to  set  me  free — 
The  one  that  touched  my  youth — 

The  one  God  gave  to  me. 

She  kindles  the  desire 

Whereby  the  gods  survive — 
The  white  ideal  fire 

That  keeps  my  soul  alive. 

92 


The   Invisible  Bride 

Now  at  the  wondrous  hour, 
She  leaves  her  star  supreme, 

And  comes  in  the  night's  still  power, 
To  touch  me  with  a  dream. 

Sibyl  of  mystery 

On  roads  unknown  to  men, 
Softly  she  comes  to  me, 

And  goes  to  God  again. 


93 


The  Valley 

I  know  a  valley  in  the  summer  hills, 
Haunted  by  little  winds  and  daffodils ; 
Faint  footfalls  and  soft  shadows  pass  at  noon  ; 
Noiseless,  at  night,  the  clouds  assemble  there ; 
And  ghostly  summits  hang  below  the  moon — 
Dim  visions  lightly  swung  in  silent  air. 


94 


The  Climb  of  Life 

There's  a  feel  of  all  things  flowing, 

And  no  power  of  Earth  can  bind  them  ; 
There's  a  sense  of  all  things  growing, 
And  through  all  their  forms  a  glowing 
Of  the  shaping  souls  behind  them. 

And  the  break  of  beauty  heightens 
With  the  swiftening  of  the  motion, 

And  the  soul  behind  it  lightens, 

As  a  gleam  of  splendor  whitens 
From  a  running  wave  of  ocean. 

See  the  still  hand  of  the  Shaper, 
Moving  in  the  dusk  of  being : 

Burns  at  first  a  misty  taper, 

Like  the  moon  in  veil  of  vapor, 
When  the  rack  of  night  is  fleeing. 

95 


The   Climb  of  Life 

In  the  stone  a  dream  is  sleeping, 

Just  a  tinge  of  life,  a  tremor ; 
In  the  tree  a  soul  is  creeping- 
Last,  a  rush  of  angels  sweeping 

With  the  skies  beyond  the  dreamer. 

So  the  Lord  of  Life  is  flinging 

Out  a  splendor  that  conceals  Him : 
And  the  God  is  softly  singing 
And  on  secret  ways  is  winging, 

Till  the  rush  of  song  reveals  Him. 


The   Tragedy 

Oh,  the  fret  of  the  brain, 

And  the  wounds  and  the  worry  ; 

Oh,  the  thought  of  love  and  the  thought  of 

death — 
And  the  soul  in  its  silent  hurry. 

But  the  stars  break  above, 

And  the  fields  flower  under  ; 
And  the  tragical  life  of  man  goes  on, 

Surrounded  by  beauty  and  wonder. 


97 


Divine    Vision 

Can  it  be  the  Master  knows 
How  the  Cosmic  Blossom  blows? 

Yes,  at  times  the  Lord  of  Light 
Breaks  forth  wonderful  and  white. 
And  he  strikes  a  chorded  lyre 
In  a  rush  of  whirlwind  fire ; 
And  He  sees  before  Him  pass 
Souls  and  planets  in  a  glass  ; 
And  within  the  music  hears 
All  the  motions  of  all  spheres, 
All  the  whispers  of  all  feet, 
Cries  of  triumph  and  retreat, 
Songs  of  systems  and  of  souls, 
Circling  to  their  mighty  goals. 

So  the  Lord  of  Light  beholds 

How  the  Cosmic  Flower  unfolds. 

98 


Midsummer  Noon 

Yonder  a  workman,  under  the  cool  bridge, 
Resting  at   mid-day,   watches    the    glancing 

midge, 
While  twinkling  lights  and  murmurs  of  the 

stream 

Pass  into  the  dim  fabric  of  his  dream  : 
The  misty  hollows  and  the  drowsy  ridge — 
How  like  an  airy  fantasy  they  seem. 


99 


One  Life,   One  Law 

What  do  we  know — what  need  we  know 
Of  the  great  world  to  which  we  go  ? 
We  peer  into  the  tomb,  and  hark  : 
Its  walls  are  dim,  its  doors  are  dark. 

Be  still,  O  mourning  heart,  nor  seek 
To  make  the  tongueless  silence  speak : 
Be  still,  be  strong,  nor  wish  to  find 
Their  way  who  leave  the  world  behind — 
Voices  and  forms  forever  gone 
Into  the  darkness  of  the  dawn. 

What  is  their  wisdom,  clear  and  deep  ? — 

That  as  men  sow  they  surely  reap,— 

That  every  thought,  that  every  deed, 

Is  sown  into  the  soul  for  seed. 

They  have  no  word  we  do  not  know, — 

Nor  yet  the  cherubim  aglow 

With  God  :  we  know  that  virtue  saves, — - 

They  know  no  more  beyond  the  graves. 

100 


Griefs 

The  rains  of  winter  scourged  the  weald, 
For  days  they  darkened  on  the  field  : 
Now,  where  the  wings  of  winter  beat, 
The  poppies  ripple  in  the  wheat. 

And  pitiless  griefs  came  thick  and  fast — 
Life's  bough  was  naked  in  the  blast — 
Till  silently  amid  the  gloom 
They  blew  the  wintry  heart  to  bloom. 


101 


An  Old  Road 

A  host  of  poppies,  a  flight  of  swallows ; 
A  flurry  of  rain,  and  a  wind  that  follows 
Shepherds  the  leaves  in  the  sheltered  hol 
lows, 
For  the  forest  is  shaken  and  thinned. 

Over  my  head  are  the  firs  for  rafter ; 

The  crows  blow  south,  and  my  heart  goes 

after  ; 

I  kiss  my  hands  to  the  world  with  laughter — 
Is  it  Aidenn  or  mystical  Ind? 

Oh,   the  whirl    of    the   fields   in   the  windy 

weather ! 

How  the  barley  breaks  and  blows  together! 
Oh,    glad    is   the    free    bird    afloat   on    the 

heather — 
Oh,  the  whole  world  is  glad  of  the  wind! 


The  New-Comers 

Two  swallows — each  preening  a  long  glossy 
feather ; 

Now  they  gossip  and  dart  through  the  sil 
very  weather ; 

Oh,   praise  to  the   Highest — two  lovers  to 
gether — 
Free,  free  in  the  fathomless  world  of  air. 

No  fate  to  oppose  and  no  fortune  to  sunder; 
Blue  sky  overhead — green  sky  breaking  un 
der ; 
And  their  home  on  the  cliff  in  the  midst  of 

the  wonder, 

With    never    a    thought    of    the    morrow 
there. 


103 


Music 

It  is  the  last  appeal  to  man — 
Voice  crying  since  the  world  began ; 
The  cry  of  the  Ideal — cry 
To  aspirations  that  would  die. 
The  last  appeal !  in  it  is  heard 
The  pathos  of  the  final  word. 

Voice  tender  and  heroical — 
Imperious  voice  that  knoweth  well 
To  wreck  the  reasonings  of  years, 
To  strengthen  rebel  hearts  with  tears. 


104 


Fay  Song 

My  life  is  a  dream — a  dream 

In  the  moon's  cool  beam; 

Some  day  I  shall  wake  and  desire 

A  touch  of  the  infinite  fire. 

But  now  'tis  enough  that  I  be 

In  the  light  of  the  sea  ; 

Enough  that  I  climb  with  the  cloud 

When  the  winds  of  the  morning  are  loud ; 

Enough  that  I  fade  with  the  stars 

When  the  door  of  the  East  unbars. 


105 


The  Old  Earth 

How  will  it  be  if  there  we  find  no  traces — 
There  in  the  Golden  Heaven — if  we  find 
No  memories  of  the  old  Earth  left  behind, 
No  visions  of  familiar  forms  and  faces — 
Reminders  of  old  voices  and  old  places  ? 
Yet  could  we  bear  it  if  it  should  remind  ? 


106 


Divine  Adventure 

At  times  a  youth  (so  whispered  legend  tells), 

Like  Hylas,  stoops  to  drink 

By  forest-hidden  brink, 

And  fair  hands  draw  him  down  to  darkened 

wells ; 

Fair  hands  that  hold  him  fast 
With  laughter  at  the  last 
Have  power  to  draw  him  lightly  down  to  be 
In  elfin  chambers  under  the  gray  sea. 

And  I,  O  men  of  Earth,  I  too, 
When  dawn  was  at  the  dew, 
Was  drawn  as  Hylas  downward  and  beheld 
Spirits  of  youth  and  eld- 
Was  swung  down    endless   caverns   to   the 

deep, 

Saw  fervid  jewels  sparkle  in  their  sleep, 

107 


Divine  Adventure 

Saw   glad   gnomes   working   in    the    dusty 

light, 
Saw   great    rocks    crouching    in    the   primal 

night. 

I  was  drawn  down,  and  after  many  days 
Returned  with  stiller  feet  to  walk  the  upper 

ways. 


108 


Song  Made  Flesh 

I  have  no  glory  in  these  songs  of  mine  : 
If  one  of  them  can  make  a  brother  strong, 

It  came  down  from  the  peaks  of  the  divine — 
I  heard  it  in  the  Heaven  of  Lyric  Song. 

The  one  who  builds  the  poem  into  fact, 

He  is  the  rightful  owner  of  it  all : 
The  pale  words  are  with  God's  own  power 

packed 

When  brave  souls  answer  to  their  bugle- 
call. 

And  so  I  ask  no  man  to  praise  my  song, 
But   I    would    have    him    build    it   in   his 

soul ; 

For  that  great  praise  would  make  me  glad 
and  strong, 

And  build  the  poem  to  a  perfect  whole. 
109 


To  High-born  Poets 

There    comes    a    pitiless    cry    from    the  op 
pressed — 
A  cry  from  the  toilers  of  Babylon  for  their 

rest. — 

O  Poet,  thou  art  holden  with  a  vow  : 
The  light  of  higher  worlds  is  on  thy  brow, 
And  Freedom's  star  is  soaring  in  thy  breast. 
Go,  be  a  dauntless  voice,  a  bugle-cry 
In    darkening   battle   when    the    winds    are 

high— 

A  clear  sane  cry  wherein  the  God  is  heard 
To  speak  to  men  the  one  redeeming  word. 
No  peace  for  thee,   no  peace, 
Till  blind  oppression  cease ; 
The  stones  cry  from  the  walls, 
Till  the  gray  injustice  falls — 
Till  strong  men  come  to  build  in  freedom- 
fate 
The  pillars  of  the  new  Fraternal  State. 


To   High-born  Poets 

Let  trifling  pipe  be  mute, 

Fling  by  the  languid  lute  : 
Take  down  the   trumpet    and   confront    the 

Hour, 
And    speak    to     toil-worn     nations    from    a 

tower — 
Take  down  the  horn  wherein  the  thunders 

sleep, 

Blow  battles  into  men — call  down  the  fire — 
The  daring,  the  long  purpose,  the  desire  ; 
Descend  with  faith  into  the  Human  Deep, 
And  ringing  to  the  troops  of  right  a  cheer, 
Make  known  the  Truth  of  Man  in  holy  fear; 
Send  forth  thy  spirit  in  a  storm  of  song, 
A  tempest  flinging  fire  upon  the  wrong. 


The  Toilers 

Their  blind  feet  drift  in  the  darkness,  and  no 

one  is  leading ; 
Their  toil  is  the  pasture,  where   hyens  and 

harpies  are  feeding ; 
In  all  lands    and    always,  the  wronged,  the 

homeless,  the  humbled 
Till  the  cliff-like  pride  of  the  spoiler  is  shaken 

and  crumbled, 
Till  the  Pillars  of  Hell  are  uprooted  and  left 

to  their  ruin, 
And  a  rose-garden  gladdens  the  places  no  rose 

ever  blew  in, 
Where  now  men  huddle  together  and  whisper 

and  harken, 
Or  hold  their  bleak  hands  over  embers  that 

die  out  and  darken. 
The  anarchies  gather  and  thunder  :  few,  few 

are  the  fraters, 
And  loud  is  the  revel  at  night  in  the  camp  of 

the  traitors. 


The    Toilers 

Say,  Shelley,  where  are  you — where  are  you  ? 

our  hearts  are  a-breaking  ! 
The  fight  in  the  terrible  darkness — the  shame 

— the  forsaking ! 

The  leaves  shower  down  and  are  sport  for 

the  winds  that  come  after ; 
And  so  are  the  Toilers  in  all  lands  the  jest 

and  the  laughter 
Of  nobles — the  Toilers  scourged  on  in  the 

furrow  as  cattle, 
Or  flung  as  a  meat  to  the  cannons  that  hunger 

in  battle. 


On    the    Gulf  of  Night 

The  world's  sad  petrels  dwell  for  evermore 

On  windy  headland  or  on  ocean  floor, 

Or   pierce    the   violent    skies   with    perilous 

flights 

That  fret  men  in  their  palaces  o'  nights, 
Breaking  enchanted  slumber's  easeful  boat, 
With  shuddering  of  their  wild  and  dolorous 

o 

note  ; 

They  blow  about  the  black  and  barren  skies, 
They  fill  the  night  with  ineffectual  cries. 

There  is  for  them  not  anything  before, 
But  sound  of  sea  and  sight  of  soundless  shore, 
Save  when  the  darkness  glimmers  with  a  ray, 
And  Hope  sings  softly,  Soon  it  will  be  day. 
Then    for   a   golden    space   the   shades   are 

thinned, 
And  dawn  seems   blowing-  seaward   on   the 

O 

wind. 

114 


On  the   Gulf  of  Night 

But  soon  the  dark  comes  wilder  than  before, 
And  swift  around  them  breaks  a  sullen  roar ; 
The  tempest  calls  to  windward  and  to  lea, 
And — they  are  seabirds  on  the  homeless  sea. 


A  Harvest  Song 

The  gray  bulk  of  the  granary  uplooms 
against  the  sky ; 

The  harvest  moon  has  dwindled — they  have 
housed  the  corn  and  rye  ; 

And  now  the  idle  reapers  lounge  against  the 
bolted  doors : 

Without  are  hungry  harvesters,  within  en 
chanted  stores. 


Lo,  they  had  bread  while  they  were  out  a-toil- 
ing  in  the  sun  : 

Now  they  are  strolling  beggars,  for  the  har 
vest  work  is  done. 

They  are  the  gods  of  husbandry :  they  gather 
in  the  sheaves, 

But  when  the  autumn  strips  the  wood,  they're 
drifting  with  the  leaves. 

116 


A  Harvest  Song 

They  plow  and  sow  and  gather  in  the  glory 
of  the  corn ; 

They  know  the  noon,  they  know  the  pitiless 
rains  before  the  morn  ; 

They  know  the  sweep  of  furrowed  fields  that 
darken  in  the  gloom — 

A  little  while  their  hope  on  earth,  then  ever 
more  their  tomb. 


Two   Taverns 

I  remember  how  I  lay 

On  a  bank  a  summer  day, 

Peering  into  weed  and  flower : 

Watched  a  poppy  all  one  hour ; 

Watched  it  till  the  air  grew  chill 

In  the  darkness  of  the  hill ; 

Till  I  saw  a  wild  bee  dart 

Out  of  the  cold  to  the  poppy's  heart ; 

Saw  the  petals  gently  spin, 

And  shut  the  little  lodger  in. 

Then  I  took  the  quiet  road 
To  my  own  secure  abode. 
All  night  long  his  tavern  hung; 
Now  it  rested,   now  it  swung ; 
I  asleep  in  steadfast  tower, 
He  asleep  in  stirring  flower; 
In  our  hearts  the  same  delight 
In  the  hushes  of  the  night; 
Over  us  both  the  same  dear  care 
As  we  slumbered  unaware. 


The  Man  under  the  Stone 

When   I  see  a  workingman  with  mouths  to 

feed, 
Up,   day  after  day,   in    the  dark  before  the 

dawn, 
And  coming  home,  night  after  night,  through 

the  dusk, 
Swinging   forward   like    some    fierce    silent 

animal, 
I  see  a  man  doomed  to  roll  a  huge  stone  up 

an  endless  steep. 

He  strains  it  onward  inch  by  stubborn  inch, 
Crouched    always    in    the   shadow    of    the 

rock. 
See   where    he    crouches,  twisted,  cramped, 

misshapen  ! 
He  lifts  for  their  life  ; 
The  veins  knot  and  darken — 
Blood  surges  into  his  face.     .     -.     . 


The  Man  under  the  Stone 

Now  he  loses — now  he  wins — 
Now  he  loses — loses — (God  of  my  soul !) 
He  digs  his  feet  into  the  earth— 
There's  a  moment  of  terrified  effort. 
Will  the  huge  stone  break  his  hold, 
And  crush  him  as  it  plunges  to  the  gulf? 

The  silent  struggle  goes  on  and  on, 
Like  two  contending  in  a  dream. 


120 


Song  to   the   Divine  Mother  * 

Come,     Mighty    Mother,     from    the    bright 

abode, 
Lift  the  low  heavens  and  hush  the  Earth 

again  ; 
Come  when  the  moon  throws  down  a  shining 

road 
Across  the  sea — come  back  to  weary  men. 

But  if  the  moon  throws  out  across  the  sea 
Too  dim  a  light,  too  wavering  a  way, 

Come  when  the  sunset  paves  a  path  for  Thee 
Across  the  waters  fading  into  gray. 

*  This  song  should  be  read  in  the  light  of  the  deep  and  memor 
able  truth  that  the  Divine  Feminine  as  well  as  the  Divine  Masculine 
Principle  is  in  God — that  he  is  Father-Mother,  T wo-in-One.  It 
follows  from  this  truth  that  the  dignity  of  womanhood  is  grounded 
in  the  Divine  Nature  itself.  The  fact  that  the  Deity  is  Man- 
Woman  was  known  to  the  ancient  poets  and  sages,  and  was  grafted 
into  the  nobler  religions  of  mankind.  The  idea  is  implied  in  the 
doctrine  of  the  Divine  Father,  taught  by  our  Lord  in  the  Gospels  ; 
and  it  is  declared  in  the  first  chapter  of  Genesis  in  the  words  : 
"  God  said,  '  Let  Us  make  man  in  Our  image,  after  Our  likeness.' 
So  God  created  man  in  His  own  image,  in  the  image  of 
God  created  He  him  j  male  and  female  created  He  them," 

121 


Song  to  the  Divine  Mother 

Dead  nations  saw  Thee  dimly  in  release — 

In  Aphrodite  rising  from  the  foam  : 
Some     glimmer    of     Thy    beauty    was     on 

Greece, 

Some  trembling  of  Thy  passion   was   on 
Rome. 


For  ages  Thou  hast  been  the  dim  desire 
That  warmed   the  bridal  chamber  of  the 

mind  : 
Come    burning    through    the    heavens    with 

Holy  Fire, 
And  spread  divine  contagion  on  mankind. 

Come    down,    O     Mother,    to    the    helpless 

land, 
That  we   may   frame    our    Freedom    into 

Fate  : 
Come  down,  and  on  the  throne  of  nations 

stand, 

That    we    may    build  Thy  beauty  in  the 
State. 

122 


Song  to  the  Divine  Mother 

Come  shining  in  upon  our  daily  road, 

Uphold  the  hero  heart  and  light  the  mind ; 

Quicken  the  strong  to  lift  the  People's  load, 
And  bring  back  buried  justice  to  mankind. 

Shine   through   the   frame   of   nations  for   a 

light, 
Move  through  the  hearts  of  heroes   in  a 

song  : 

It  is  Thy  beauty,  wilder  than  the  night, 
That   hushed  the  heavens  and  keeps  the 
high  gods  strong. 

I  know,  Supernal  Woman,  Thou  dost  seek 
No  song  of  man,  no  worship  and  no  praise; 

But  thou  wouldst  have  dead   lips  begin    to 

speak, 
And  dead  feet  rise  to  walk  immortal  ways. 

Yet  listen,  Mighty  Mother,  to  the  child 
Who    has    no    voice  but  song  to  tell  his 

grief- 
Nothing  but  tears  and  broken  numbers  wild, 
Nothing-  but  woodland  music  for  relief. 

o 

123 


Song  to  the  Divine  Mother 

His  song  is  but  a  little  broken  cry, 
Less  than  the  whisper  of  a  river  reed  ; 

Yet  thou  canst  hear  in  it  the  souls  that  die — 
Feel  in  its  pain  the  vastness  of  our  need. 

I  would  not  break  the  mouth  of  song  to  tell 
My  life's  long  passion  and  my  heart's  long 

grief, 

But  Thou  canst  hear  the  ocean  in  one  shell, 
And  see  the  whole  world's  winter  in  one 
leaf. 

So  here  I  stand  at  the  world's  weary  feet, 
And  cry  the  sorrow  of  the  world's  dumb 
years  : 

I  cry  because  I  hear  the  world's  heart  beat 
Weary  of  hope  and  broken  through  by  tears. 

For  ages  Thou  hast  breathed  upon  mankind 

A  faint  wild  tenderness,  a  vague  desire  ; 
For  ages  stilled  the  whirlwinds  of  the  mind, 

And  sent  on  lyric  seers  the  rush  of  fire. 
124 


Song  to  the  Divine  Mother 

And     yet    the    world     is    held    by    wintry 

chain, 

Dead  to  Thy  social  passion,  Holy  One  : 
The  dried-up  furrows  need  the  vital  rain, 
The    cold    seeds    the    quick  spirit  of   the 
sun. 

Some  day  our  homeless  cries  will  draw  Thee 

down, 
And   the   old   brightness   on  the  ways   of 

men 

Will  send  a  hush  upon  the  jangling  town, 
And    broken    hearts  will    learn    to    love 
again. 

Come,    Bride    of    God,    to    fill    the    vacant 

Throne, 
Touch  the  dim  Earth  again  with   sacred 

feet; 

Come  build  the  Holy  City  of  white  stone, 
And    let    the    whole    world's  gladness  be 
complete. 

125 


Song  to  the   Divine  Mother 

Come  with  the  face  that  hushed  the  heavens 

of  old- 
Come    with    Thy    maidens    in    a    mist    of 

light ; 
Haste  for  the  night  falls  and  the  shadows 

fold, 
And  voices  cry  and  wander  on  the  height. 


126 


The  Flying  Mist 

I  watch  afar  the  moving  Mystery, 

The  wool-shod,  formless  terror  of  the  sea — 

The    Mystery    whose     lightest    touch    can 

change 

The  world   God  made    to   phantasy,   death- 
strange. 

Under  its  spell  all  things  grow  old  and  gray 
As  they  will  be  beyond  the  Judgment  Day. 
All  voices,  at  the  lifting  of  some  hand, 
Seem  calling  to  us  from  another  land. 
Is  it  the  still  Power  of  the  Sepulcher 
That  makes  all  things  the  wraiths  of  things 
that  were  ? 

It  touches,  one  by  one,  the  wayside  posts, 
And  they  are  gone,  a  line  of  hurrying  ghosts. 
It  creeps  upon  the  towns  with  stealthy  feet, 
And    men    are    phantoms    on    a    phantom 

street. 

127 


The  Flying  Mist 

It  strikes  the  towers  and  they  are  shafts  of 

air, 

Above  the  spectres  passing  in  the  square. 
The  city  turns  to  ashes,  spire  by  spire  ; 
The  mountains  perish  with  their  peaks  afire. 
The  fading  city  and  the  falling  sky 
Are  swallowed  in  one  doom  without  a  cry. 

It  tracks  the  traveler  fleeing  with  the  gale, 
Fleeing  toward  home  and  friends  without 

avail  ; 

It  springs  upon  him  and  he  is  a  ghost, 
A   blurred    shape    moving    on    a    soundless 

coast. 

God  !  it  pursues  my  love  along  the  stream, 
Swirls  round  her  and  she  is  forever  dream. 
What  Hate  has  touched  the  universe  with 

eld, 
And  left  me  only  in  a  world  dispelled  ? 


123 


From  the  Hand  of  a  Child 

One  day  a  child  ran  after  me  in  the  street, 
To  give  me  a  half-blown   rose,  a  fire-white 

rose, 
Its  stem  all  warm   yet   from   the   tight-shut 

hand. 

The  little  gift  seemed  somehow  more  to  me 
Than  all  men  strive  for  in  the  turbid  towns, 
Than  all  they  hoard  up  through  a  long  wild 

life. 
And  as  I  breathed  the  heart-breath  of  the 

flower, 

The  Youth  of  Earth  broke  on  me  like  a  dawn, 
And  I  was  with  the  wide-eyed  wondering 

things, 

Back  in  the  far  forgotten  buried  time. 
A  lost  world  came  back  softly  with  the  rose  : 
I  saw  a  glad  host  follow  with  lusty  cries 
Diana  flying  with  her  maidens  white, 
Down  the  long  reaches  of  the  laureled  hills. 

9  129 


From  the   Hand  of  a   Child 

Above  the  sea  I  saw  a  wreath  of  girls, 
Fading  to  air  in  far-off  poppy  fields. 
I  saw  a  blithe  youth  take  the  open  road : 
His  thoughts  ran  on  before  him  merrily; 
Sometimes    he    dipped    his    feet   in   stirring 

brooks ; 
At      night      he      slept      upon      a     bed      of 

boughs. 

This  in  my  soul.     Then  suddenly  a  shape, 
A  spectre  wearing  yet  the  mask  of  dust 
Jostled  against  me  as  he  passed,  and  lo  ! 
The  jarring  city  and  the  drift  of  feet 
Surged  back  upon  me  like  the  grieving  sea. 


130 


At  the  Meeting  of  Seven  Valleys 

At  the  meeting  of  seven  valleys  in  the  west, 

I  came  upon  a  host  of  silent  souls, 

Seated  beside  still  waters  on  the  grass. 

It  was  a  place  of  memories  and  tears — 

Terrible  tears.      I  rested  in  a  wood, 

And    there   the  bird   that   mourns   for    Itys 

sang — 

Itys  that  touched  the  tears  of  all  the  world. 
But    climbing    onward    toward    the    purple 

peaks, 

I  passed,  on  silent  feet,  white  multitudes, 
Beyond  the  reach  of  peering  memories, 
Lying  asleep  upon  the  scented  banks, 
Their  bodies  burning  with  celestial  fire. 
A  mighty  awe  came  on  me  at  the  thought — 
The  strangeness  of  the  beatific  sleep, 
The  vision  of  God,  the  mystic  bread  of  rest. 


131 


The  Rock-Breaker 

Pausing    he    leans    upon    his    sledge,    and 

looks — 

A  labor-blasted  toiler ; 
So  have  I  seen,  on  Shasta's  top,  a  pine 

Stand  silent  on  a  cliff, 
Stript    of    its    glory    of    green    leaves    and 

boughs, 

Its  great  trunk  split  by  fire, 
Its    gray  bark    blackened    by   the    thunder- 
smoke, 

Its  life  a  sacrifice 
To  some  blind  purpose  of  the  Destinies. 


132 


These  Songs  Will  Perish 

These  songs  will  perish  like  the  shapes  of 

air — 

The  singer  and  the  songs  die  out  forever ; 
But  star-eyed  Truth  (greater  than  song  or 

singer) 
Sweeps    hurrying    on :    far    off   she    sees   a 

gleam 

Upon  a  peak.     She  cried  to  man  of  old 
To     build     the     enduring,    glad     Fraternal 

State — 

Cries  yet  through  all  the  ruins  of  the  world — 
Through    Karnak,    through    the    stones    of 

Babylon — 
Cries   for  a  moment   through   these    fading 

songs. 

On  winged  feet,  a  form  of  fadeless  youth, 
She  goes  to  meet  the  coming  centuries, 

133 


These   Songs    Will  Perish 

And,    hurrying,    snatches    up    some    human 

reed, 
Blows    through    it   once    her    terror-bearing 

note, 

And  breaks  and  throws  away.      It  is  enough 
If  we  can  be  a  bugle  at  her  lips, 
To  scatter  her  contagion  on  mankind. 


134 


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